“Stuff must work pretty well.”
“It does.” She spread it on. He felt nothing beyond her touch. Apparently arnica also took away the pain. Or maybe she did.
She returned the cream to the cabinet, wiped her hand on a towel, and opened the door. “I’ve got wine and beer.”
“Beer,” he said, thankful when she shut the door behind her. He wanted to look at those marks again.
The bruises on Raye’s arm had resembled fingers, and her explanation of a child grabbing her had made sense. It still did.
What didn’t were the finger-shaped bruises on him.
Chapter 15
I retreated to my bedroom, dug around for a robe I never used, and put it on. Apparently my ease with naked only extended to the actual act and right after. I would have loved to be the kind of woman who could deliver a beer to a man unclothed. But I wasn’t. If I had been I could have made a much better living doing it. Teaching didn’t pay half as well as stripping. A fact that annoyed me daily.
In truth, I needed to get out of the bathroom before Bobby asked about that bruise. I had no idea what to tell him. I’d never seen another like it.
Except on me.
My hand on the refrigerator door, I glanced at my arm, but the bruises that had been there a few days ago—the ones made by the ghost of Anne McKenna—were gone. Arnica cream rocked, though usually not quite that well. However, I’d never had bruises caused by a ghost before. I hoped I never would again, though I figured that hope was doomed.
But now Bobby had them too. I had no idea what his meant either.
I thought back to the basement. Genevieve had been upset; her ghost-child hand had reached out in an attempt to snatch her father from danger. Her fingers had gone through his side—right where those marks were. He’d stopped and shuddered. Which meant he’d felt her, and that was …
Really odd.
According to Bobby, anyone who said they saw ghosts was a thief, a charlatan, or a liar—maybe all three. Considering his behavior today, I had to wonder if perhaps he’d been protesting too much.
I pulled a Miller Genuine Draft out of the refrigerator. I had a few Leinie’s Summer Shandys left, but I doubted Bobby was a lemony-beer type of guy.
I popped the top, glanced at the bathroom door. Was he still staring at the bruises, trying to convince himself they’d come from four thin, short sticks of wood that had rained down from the exploding house, rather than the fingers of his dead child? Why wouldn’t he? He had no idea his dead child, or anyone else, was following him.
And I really, really, didn’t want to be the one to tell him.
I considered that ghost bruises weren’t something reserved just for those who saw ghosts. People got bruises all the time that they didn’t know the origin of. They passed them off as a bump they’d been too busy to register at the time, a thump in the night on the way to the toilet, forgotten by the light of day, even acute leukemia. In most cases, they were right—hopefully not about the leukemia. It helped that most mystery bruises were not shaped like fingers.
So why were his? Why were mine? Another question or two for Henry.
I poured some red wine, drank a healthy swallow, then took both it and the beer to the kitchen table, set them down, glanced at the door again, and picked up the clothes I’d promised to wash.
I removed Bobby’s keys, his wallet, and his cell phone from the jeans, tossed them next to the beer and strode to the stacked washer and dryer in the corner of my rarely used kitchen. When I returned to my wine, I saw that his wallet had fallen open. I forgot all about the mystery of the ghostly bruises.
A photo of Genevieve occupied the space meant for a driver’s license. Not a surprise. The surprise was the gorgeous redhead in the photo next to her.
Obviously Genevieve’s mom—they had the same nose, a similar smile. But the woman’s presence in the wallet brought up a question: Was Bobby married?
That would have been a good question to ask before now.
The bathroom door opened. So did my fingers. The wallet dropped onto the table. The leather folded closed on contact. Thank God.
Bobby wore nothing but a towel. Num. He picked up his beer, took a sip, smiled. He must not have seen me going through his wallet.
“I put your clothes in the wash.”
“Thanks.”
“I took the stuff out of your pockets.”
“Thanks,” he repeated.
“I…” I had no idea how to broach this subject. I’d never had to. The thing that annoyed me the most about dating in New Bergin, that everyone knew everyone else’s business, meant I did too. No embarrassing surprises in the aftermath. All the embarrassing surprises were out in the open as soon as they embarrassingly happened.
“Remember that cold case?” Bobby sipped his beer. “We talked about it at Thore’s Farm. Locked-room mystery. You suggested we check the floor in the locker.”